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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456863">Drink of Spiced Wine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky'>MovesLikeBucky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Greece, Apologies to the wine, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/F, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Making Love, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, Wet &amp; Messy, and to Dionysus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:20:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456863</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As she gets closer, there’s a strong smell of grapes in the air, the sharp pungency of tannins. The women are treading grapes, smashing them underfoot to ferment wine in the name of Dionysus.  They hold each other steady by their arms, grip each other tightly.  Aziraphale is mesmerized by it, the way they spin and the familiarity they have with each other.  She circles at the outskirts, not wanting to interrupt them, but unable to stop staring.</p><p>A flash of crimson catches her eye, a tight but long braid of burnished copper, it catches the firelight and sparks even brighter.  She moves in closer, unsure and yet certain.  The woman smiles, crinkling the lines in the corner of her eyes, black snake tattoo just visible in the low-light.  It’s Crowley.  Heavens above, it’s Crowley.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Drink of Spiced Wine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's Day 7! We're past the halfway mark and today's prompt is: “I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.” (Song of Songs 8:2)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s feet fall carefully, dodging the twigs and branches that have fallen from the oaks, keeping her steps silent.  Her sword is sheathed, but she still grips it tightly.  She knows what it is to wield a weapon such as this, knows how to use it to attack and to defend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her role as a plyntride sends her on missions like this, errands for the temple of Athena.  Goddess of the moon and of the hunt.  It’s an odd assignment from Heaven, they usually don’t tamper in the realm of the polytheistic, but a job is a job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s firelight in the distance, the distinct sound of voices through the darkness.  Her map had said there was a temple near here, one for Dionysus, the god of fertility, ecstasy, and wine.  Perhaps she can seek shelter there, get past the general bad feelings the forest has coursing through her veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Aziraphale gets closer, she realizes the voices are laughter.  The laughter and singing of many different women rings through the trees, a beautiful symphony.  The maenads, no doubt.  Probably indulging in one of their rituals.  Aziraphale is not the biggest fan of them; they tend to be a bit too wild for her tastes.  But she’s been days in the forest, the long branches pulling at her hair and pricking at her skin.  Any bit of warmth and hospitality right now would be welcome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She approaches the temple slowly, hesitantly.  There’s a pull here she can’t place, but one that feels welcome.  Feels like the sea air and good company; it puts her at ease.  She can feel the cold melt away as she approaches the temple, warmth from the torches and firelight already meeting her and greeting her like an old friend.  She spares a passing blessing to whoever lit the fires and follows the sound of singing through the area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she finds is five women, chitons pulled up and hitched around their legs, tied off to stay out of the way.  They look to be dancing, but not in any way Aziraphale has ever seen.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she gets closer, there’s a strong smell of grapes in the air, the sharp pungency of tannins. The women are treading grapes, smashing them underfoot to ferment wine in the name of Dionysus.  They hold each other steady by their arms, grip each other tightly.  Aziraphale is mesmerized by it, the way they spin and the familiarity they have with each other.  She circles at the outskirts, not wanting to interrupt them, but unable to stop staring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flash of crimson catches her eye, a tight but long braid of burnished copper, it catches the firelight and sparks even brighter.  She moves in closer, unsure and yet certain.  The woman smiles, crinkling the lines in the corner of her eyes, black snake tattoo just visible in the low-light.  It’s Crowley.  Heavens above, it’s Crowley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She isn’t wearing lenses, her eyes are open and vulnerable to the world.  Even from here Aziraphale can see they are full of happiness and mirth.  It looks good on Crowley, happiness.  A stark difference from Golgotha where she openly wept over Yeshua, and from Rome where he had been in a sulk that the angel had tried desperately to break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t long before Crowley notices her, even hanging about the outskirts as she is.  She bids the other maenads good evening, climbs out of the wooden vat.  Her legs are stained a deep burgundy, the edge of her red chiton bleeding to a darker color.  Crowley crosses to her on bare feet, still light and fanciful as she spins around, as though to music played only for her ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fancy seeing you here, Aziraphale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a bit surprised myself. Odd that my walk through the woods should lead me to the very temple where my eternal adversary is engaged in wanton debauchery.”  Aziraphale tries to sound unaffected and righteous, but the words come out fond instead.  A bright smile spreads across Crowley’s features, crinkling the lines near her eyes.  She’s beautiful in the ethereal glow of the firelight, and Aziraphale thinks she can see just a bit of the shimmering angel Crowley surely used to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well if wine is debauchery consider me a fan.  Can’t get enough of the stuff, think it’s got some real staying power.  And these girls?  Absolute masters of the stuff.  Not like that swill that passes for it in Rome.”  Crowley links her arm in Aziraphale’s, pulls her along behind her as they make their way through the temple cella, to a stone path that cuts through the wooded area, nearly hidden completely from view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is reminded of Rome, of a shared jug of house brown, and something much nicer shared in sparks over a plate of oysters and good conversation.  She remembers watching Crowley’s hands as they wrapped around the wood goblet, wondering how they would feel wrapped around her in some way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heat radiates from where Crowley grips her arm, and Aziraphale does her best to ignore it.  The hellfire in Crowley’s veins gives her a warmth that Aziraphale wants to lean into, be consumed by.  Lord, she’s been falling for a while now, hasn’t she?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue in companionable conversation until they reach a little village, and Crowley’s living quarters on the outskirts.  Just far enough inside to be part of the community, but close enough to the edge of the village to allow her some solitude.  Familiar patterns in the way she chooses her dwellings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to my humble home!” Crowley says with a flourish, bowing ridiculously as she ushers Aziraphale in through the door.  “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll get us a drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that would be wonderful! Thank you, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the invitation, Aziraphale stays standing.  Her eyes follow Crowley around the room as she lights the candles and tidies things randomly before disappearing into what Aziraphale can only assume is the kitchen.  Still, she should be a good guest.  She removes her sword, leaves it propped by the door, smooths her chiton and steps further into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t much, a rough wood table and stools, various knickknacks lining the walls on every available surface.  Crowley has always been a collector of memories, of instances and meetings.  Keeps souvenirs to remember encounters she’s had.  Aziraphale isn’t like that, keeping only what she can carry on her person.  No need to bog herself down with memories of the past, best to keep moving forward.  Keep the mind occupied with the here and now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale notices, in her appraisal of the room, that it feels lived in; feels like a home.  Angels can sense virtues and this little house, well, it feels loved.  Loved and wanted.  Aziraphale isn’t sure why that makes her heart ache, nor why it is what finally causes her to sit down on one of the wooden stools.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley emerges with a jug of wine and a tray of grapes and cheese, sitting them on the table with a flourish.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>My</span>
  </em>
  <span> house brown, just bottled it yesterday.”  Crowley is beaming with pride as she pours them wine into goblets manifested from firmament.  “A toast!” She says as she takes the chair across from Aziraphale, “To old friends made new, and to whatever comes next!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They clink their goblets together, drink deeply of the wine.  “Oh my this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>scrummy</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale says, downing hers rather more quickly than she’d like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scrummy?” Crowley asks with a fond sneer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, scrummy.  Scrumptious.  Delectable.  Whatever you wish to call it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley just laughs and takes another drink.  Aziraphale does, too.  They toast to Dionysus, to Athena, to the humans and their ingenuity.  To the tannins that make wine taste so good and to whoever bestowed the knowledge on how to extract them.  Soon enough they’re both pleasantly buzzed, drunk on wine and company alike.  Aziraphale can’t remember the last time she was this happy.  Or perhaps, she doesn’t want to.  The last time was Rome; the last time she saw Crowley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As their laughter dies down, she notices a faraway look in Crowley’s eyes.  Her head rests in her hand, elbow propped on the table.  She’s swaying slightly, partly due to the drink and partly her snakelike nature, Aziraphale is sure.  But her smile isn’t quite reaching her eyes; she looks completely lost in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, allowing her hand to fall to Crowley’s knee.  Just to get her attention, she tells herself, not so she can feel the warmth of Crowley on her skin again.  Crowley’s look turns to shock, her eyes fix on where Aziraphale’s hand rests, and she is frozen still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y…yeah?”  There’s a nervous tension to the word that Aziraphale wants more than anything to soothe away.  So much held in so few letters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as happy as I saw you tonight.  You were laughing so freely, so wonderfully…my dear, it sounded like music to me.  It does me good to see you this happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in the low candlelight Aziraphale can see how pink Crowley’s cheeks go, how her eyes widen at Aziraphale’s words.  Crowley mutters something that Aziraphale can’t quite hear, either for the wine or for the whisper-soft tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’better now you’re here…”  The blush on Crowley’s cheeks deepens, a near match for her copper hair.  She swallows hard but carries on, “S’always better once you’re here, angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale isn’t sure when they started leaning into each other’s space, isn’t sure if it’s the firelight or the wine or simply the weight of wanting too much that pulls them closer together.  Like a decaying orbit around a star, around </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> stars.  She cups Crowley’s cheek, strokes a thumb over her high cheekbone, traces the laughter lines that etch the demon’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know, my dear, just how lovely you are when you laugh?  How you shine like the sun?  Like creation?”  Her words flow freely, aided by the wine, spurred on by the warmth of Crowley’s skin.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Darling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel… can’t just say things like that…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why not?  I’m only speaking the truth.”  Aziraphale brings her other hand to Crowley’s face, heart jumping into her throat when Crowley leans into the touch.  Crowley wraps her thin fingers around Aziraphale’s wrists, delicate and gentle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t be, though…” Crowley’s thumbs trace the bones of Aziraphale’s wrist lightly, like she’s testing to see if this is real.  Her eyes are watery, searching the depths of Aziraphale’s for the gimmick, for the trick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Aziraphale whispers into their shared air, feeling the hot puff of Crowley’s labored breathing against her lips.  So close now, so far away still.  “Crowley, let me prove it to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nods and that’s all Aziraphale needs, strengthened in her resolve of what she wants.  She closes the distance, presses her lips to Crowley’s.  They’re dry, a little cracked from the cold, but they’re perfect.  Her kiss tastes like wine, like spicy sharp tannins and lush grapes.  Crowley’s arms come to rest around Aziraphale’s neck, not pulling her in, just keeping her close.  Aziraphale deepens the kiss, tastes the fire on Crowley’s tongue as it slides against hers, feels the softness of Crowley’s hair as she works her braids free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel…” Crowley breathes against her lips, kissing her again and again, a deluge of affection spilling forth from the walls that they both had built up for so long.  Aziraphale pulls away, reaching for her goblet as Crowley’s kisses migrate to her throat, as those dextrous fingers grip and pull at the shoulders of her chiton, exposing more skin to the demon’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My love…” Aziraphale sighs as she tips the goblet back, letting the wine wash over her tongue.  She grips Crowley by the chin, pulling her up and into another kiss, letting her drink the wine from Aziraphale’s mouth.  It dribbles over her chin, messy and wet.  Deep purple streams like running water to the valleys of her skin.  Aziraphale kisses lower, nipping at the skin of Crowley’s neck, licking the wine from the indents above her collar bone, from the hollow of her throat.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley grips Aziraphale’s hair, long fingers threaded through blonde curls.  She holds her there, lets her drink her fill.  Litanies of ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ and ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ falling from her mouth as she all but climbs into the angel’s lap.  She barely weighs two grapes, and Aziraphale wraps her arms around the demon’s slim waist, holding her close and steady in her lap as she tastes where the wine and sweat mingle on her skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s even sweeter this way…” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s skin, reveling in the full body shiver it earns her from Crowley.  She lifts the goblet again, this time to Crowley’s lips.  “My darling, shall I drink of your spiced wine?  The juice of your pomegranates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tilts her head back, taking the proffered wine.  She turns and leans in, kissing Aziraphale with a greedy desperation.  Wine drips down Aziraphale’s skin, stains her white chiton a deep purple where it soaks into the fabric, runs a channel down to her breasts.  Crowley follows the trail with her forked tongue, gooseflesh rising in its wake across Aziraphale’s skin as she holds the demon tight.  Crowley’s fingers pull at the edge of the ruined fabric where it lies across her chest.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead, love, I’ll let you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t wait to be told twice, runs a fingernail down the front of Aziraphale’s chiton, splitting the fabric with a miracle and baring her breasts.  Crowley’s tongue traces the wine down to them, circles around one of her nipples as Aziraphale moans, hips thrusting of their own accord.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel, Aziraphale…wanted you so long…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Crowley, I’m yours, you have me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley kisses her deeply again, salty tang of tears mingling with the wine.  Crowley’s fingers slide past the hem of her chiton; warm hands touching pale skin, tracing golden stretch marks.  Aziraphale rolls her hips in permission, and Crowley’s fingers travel higher, just barely tracing the edges of her labia.  Aziraphale keens, takes Crowley’s bottom lip between her teeth as she moans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s gentle, at first.  Tentative exploration as Crowley teases her open.  These fingers on these hands that Aziraphale has watched through the ages.  Hands that she’s watched wrap around wine goblets in joy or reel back in a fist to punch guards in anger.  Hands that held those of scared children where they hid on the ark, giving comfort in a raging storm.  Hands that offered the first temptation, that caused the fall of humanity with one simple apple.  One simple suggestion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These hands that Aziraphale has loved for so long push into her, crook inside and rub against her walls.  Crowley’s thumb circles her clit, drawing breathy gasps out of her that are immediately swallowed by Crowley’s waiting mouth.  All too soon, Aziraphale finds her release, clenching down around Crowley’s fingers, gripping her hips tight enough to bruise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale kisses her again, lifting Crowley easy as anything and laying her out on the table.  The goblets of wine are knocked over in the shuffle, spilling over Crowley’s chiton and soaking through to her skin.  The tray of grapes and cheeses clatters to the floor, completely forgotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Crowley, you must know what you do to me…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m starting to get an idea,” Crowley replies with a smirk, licking Aziraphale’s slick from her fingers in a way that has no right to be as erotic as it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to take you apart, my love, if you’ll let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been waiting millennia for you to say that, angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s face breaks into a smile as she grips red fabric, pulling and tearing it off of Crowley’s body.  The demon shivers, newly exposed to the air, and Aziraphale’s lips are on her immediately.  She nips and licks at Crowley’s skin, sucking bruises into her hips, licking wine from between her breasts, swirling her tongue around Crowley’s nipples, cleaning the wine off of her skin with infinite tenderness.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her kisses move lower, over Crowley’s navel and to the soft thatch of red hair just there on her pelvis.  Aziraphale flicks her eyes to Crowley’s, taking in the sight of her, laid out and naked, sweat and spit and wine on her skin glinting in the candlelight, shimmering and shining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale, please, need you…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, my love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale plants a kiss to each of her thighs, slow and gentle ones, before flattening her tongue across the center of Crowley.  She’s wet and dripping, already a mess for not having been touched yet.  Crowley moans, arches her back off the wooden table as she threads her fingers through Aziraphale’s curls, grinding down on her face and encouraging her onward.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her taste is musky, heavy on Aziraphale’s tongue in the best possible way.  Crowley was made to be savored.  Made to be loved and cherished.  As Aziraphale wraps her lips around Crowley’s clit and sucks, she thinks she could spend the rest of her life doing just that.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley yowls, digging her nails into Aziraphale’s scalp.  Aziraphale laves her tongue over Crowley’s entrance again, slowly from just below all the way up to circle at her clit.  She uses more pressure this time, relishing the shake of Crowley’s legs on either side of her face.  She pushes in with her tongue, tasting Crowley’s slick at the source, fucking her open slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s thighs squeeze around her head, pulling her in closer.  Crowley ruts against her again, coating Aziraphale’s face in her slick, keeping her off rhythm.  Aziraphale grips her hips, holds her steady as she pushes in hard with her tongue, feels Crowley’s body shudder beneath her hands as Crowley clenches around her tongue, orgasm rolling over her in waves as she screams Aziraphale’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks back up at her, wiping her face on Crowley’s thigh, “How was that, darling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks back at her, dazed and sated, hand idly petting at Aziraphale’s face.  “You… you love me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid I do.”  Aziraphale stands and gathers Crowley into her arms, lets the demon nuzzle against her chest while she holds her close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like when you manhandle me, should’ve been doing that years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well if you would be so kind as to point me to the bedroom here, I think I could manhandle you some more, if you’re up for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shaky hand points through a doorway to the right, to a room with a wooden bed, covered in furs and looking so very inviting.  “Do what you like, but I’m going to sleep.  Wore me out, you have.”  Aziraphale carries her over the threshold, lies them down in soft comfort, kissing Crowley greedily and possessively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I suppose it’ll wait til morning then,” Aziraphale says as Crowley curls into her, wrapping long and gangly limbs around her much like a snake might, “But I fully intend to love you as loudly as I can, for as long as I can, I want you to know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley curls into her tighter, a high pitched whine escaping her, “Angel…”  Aziraphale can’t see, but she is certain the demon’s skin is as red as her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now, my love, goodnight and sleep well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head, stays wide awake as the demon’s breathing evens out in the haze of sleep.  She follows soon after, dreams of wine and laughter filling her mind through the darkness of night.</span>
</p>
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